


how still we stood, how fast

by eudaimon



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Jackson refuses to be roused; Hobbs has learned to cope with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how still we stood, how fast

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'For an Album' by Adrienne Rich.

The way that Jackson sees it, things become habit out of laziness, more often than not – good things as well as bad. Sometimes, it feels like he’s spent the last twenty years in constant motion, picking up habits along the way. And, yeah, those have been both good and bad. 

Looking at Hobbs, he finds that he can’t remember what it felt like to be nineteen years old.  
Then again – wasn’t that a different life? And aren’t these idle thoughts?

“I’ve already told you,” he says, stretching his spine and idly gropes for the hookah, “I ain’t goin’, and you can’t make me, Hobbs.”

Hobbs himself is a very picture of discontent. He fidgets. Set his hands on his hips and huffs, smoothes his palm over his hair and fusses with his buttons. He flushes like a goddamn girl.

“Only, the Inspector said…”  
“Do I look like I give a shit what the _Inspector_ said?”

This is not the first time that they’ve found themselves in this position, this exact same state of affairs: Hobbs is sent to retrieve him and, dutifully, Jackson refuses to go. The first few times, Hobbs bolted like a rabbit. Now, though, he rolls his eyes and starts to unbutton his tunic.

Things have definitely progressed since the first few times.

Stripped down to under-things, Hobbs sits down with a huff on the edge of the mattress. He always looks so neat in his uniform, but there’s something pretty about him ruffled, flushed and irritable. Jackson reaches out and traces the knobbled road of Hobbs’ spine through his shirt, works his fingers underneath and runs the tip of one against warm skin. There’s something so soft about Hobbs, belied by his capability and the iron that seems to be in him in his day to day dealings. Young, yes, but far from incapable and Jackson has always found him remarkably difficult to shock.

“Seeing as how we’re here,” says Jackson, shifting closer, keeping Hobbs’ shirt rucked up over the small of his back as he bends to brush his lips against that smooth, secret skin. He feels Hobbs shiver. The sheet slips and Jackson remembers that he’d tumbled into bed entirely naked the night before. Hobbs glances back and blushes (though Jackson notices that he’s in no hurry to actually _avert_ his eyes).

“You’re incorrigible,” says Hobbs, but he also lifts his arms without needing to be told. Jackson sits up to more easily peel off his shirt.

“There,” he says, kissing along Hobbs’ shoulder, fingers slipping under his waistband. “Isn’t that better?” And Hobbs might not actually _say_ anything, but his filling cock is more than enough of an answer. Jackson grins. Curling his fingers, he gives Hobbs an idle stroke. “C’mon. Come and lie down.”

They stretch out, Jackson naked and Hobbs nearly so, underwear riding low on his skinny hips. Standing, Hobbs has got a good few inches on him but, lying down, they see eye to eye. The ever-present blush is spreading across Hobbs’ cheeks; Jackson has consistently found him willing to try anything and everything, enthusiastic to a fault. Which doesn’t seem to stop the blushing. Jackson grins, bending his head to kiss the point of Hobbs’ chin. Almost immediately, Hobbs lifts his head, searching or something more. They don’t spend much time kissing, in the grand scheme of things, but there’s something inviting about how much Hobbs seems to _enjoy_ it when they do. The boy kisses with a needy urgency, something born of youth. Maybe Jackson liked kissing this much when he was Hobbs’ age? But that was years ago, in a different life, so it’s difficult to recall.

He definitely ain’t complaining.

They kiss, with increasingly urgency and Jackson shifts, shifting his knee between Hobbs’ thighs to keep them spread. The hard line of Hobbs’ cock is a constant distraction, pressed against him as it is. He rocks his hips and is gratified to feel Hobbs shiver underneath him. There’s only one thin layer of cotton between them and Jackson is well on his way to finding it maddening. He presses another kiss against Hobbs’ lips, one against his chin, and another against the smooth hollow of his throat. Hobbs’ skin is smooth as a girl’s; Jackson imagines him standing in front of a mirror in his mother’s kitchen, meticulously shaving every inch. 

With a noise approaching a growl of frustration, Jackson pushes himself upright, up onto his knees. Hobbs looks up at him, rumpled and flushed, knees fallen apart, gloriously unselfconscious of the way his stiff cock is tenting linen. He bites his lip over a grin and Jackson feels his own cock jump. Couple of months ago, he never would have thought to see that kind of look come so quickly into Hobbs’ eyes.

“Time to get you naked, I think,” he says, leaning forward to finish unbuttoning Hobbs’ underwear, finish peeling it down and off him. The first time he’d seen Hobbs naked, he’d been struck by how… _whole_ he was, pale and flawless. Seems like not all familiarity breeds contempt.

“You alright there, Captain Jackson?” asks Hobbs, reaching out with one hand to graze his fingertips against Jackson’s bare hip. Jackson catches those fingertips with his.

“Did I drift?” he asks, grinning. 

He leans down, between Hobbs’ bare thighs, catching his weight on his hands against the pillow as he bends to kiss him. Feels Hobbs’ legs come up to cradle him, heels pressing against the back of his thighs.

“Do you want to?” asks Hobbs, so close that they’re sharing breath, so close the words smudge against Jackson’s lips. “Because I want to. I really, really want to.”

Jackson chuckles and rolls his hips down, length of his cock grazing right along the length of Hobbs’, which is enough to make them both shiver. Hobbs’ head falls back against the pillow. He bites his lip over a moan. 

“Darlin’,” croons Jackson, rolling his hips again for good measure. “Don’t I always?”

Want to or not, it takes him a long time to pull away. The locker at the side of the bed is loaded with useful things. Retrieving the bottle, he drops it on the sheet before he pushes Hobbs’ knees up. The boy’s a quick study: he arranges himself so that he’s spread and ready, fixing Jackson with dark, watchful eyes. His tongue touches his lip. Skin shines wet. Jackson dribbles oil over his fingers, a little more into the cleft of Hobbs’ ass for good measure. The boy squirms in a most inviting way as Jackson rubs the tip of one finger over him, teasing. His breath catches.

“Ready?” he asks, though he’s already more than aware of the answer.

“Of course,” says Hobbs, nodding. “Please.”

He always asks so prettily, and it’s all the urging that Jackson needs to start easing one slick finger into him. This isn’t the first time that he’s done this, but still he goes slowly, gives Hobbs time to adjust. He’s tight, but he wants it – that much is clear in the way his hips ride down, the way he presses Jackson’s finger as deep as he can without being urged. Hobbs’ hand comes up, fingers curling around the back of Jackson’s neck as he rocks his hips. 

“More?” asks Jackson, lips grazing Hobbs’ skin.

Hobbs nods. Jackson fancies that he can actually see his pulse fluttering under his skin. He presses another finger in alongside the first, craning his neck to watch the stretch of Hobbs’ body around his knuckles. Every inch of the boy’s body is scrawled with need. That deep flush from his cheeks spreads down his neck, across his chest. He rocks, biting on his lip – he has this habit of trying to swallow every single sound, no matter how many times Jackson tells him that nobody will notice one more moan, one more shout. Still, Hobbs chews on his lip and swallows it back, which makes every sound that does make it a tiny, little hard-won victory. 

Three fingers, now. A precise roll of his wrist. His fingers graze when he’s looking for and the arch of Hobbs’ spine goes suddenly tight, like a bow string. There it is – a sound that spills out of him too quickly for him to catch himself. A moan, but barely there. Jackson grins and keeps the position of his hand, thrusts his fingers into Hobbs’ willing body, deeper, harder, twisting them and watching Hobbs’ cock bob with the rock of his hips. His own cock is a constant distraction, hard to the point of aching, but he can ignore it for a moment or two moment, drawn as his eye is to Hobbs’ expression: the fluttering of his eyelashes, the tremble of his lips. Leaning down, Jackson kisses his deep and wet as he drags his fingers free.

“Stay like that,” he says, straightening up. “Exactly like that.”

Hobbs is a willing boy, takes instruction well in his day to day life. That’s not always the case in bed (he’s possessed of a _very_ pleasing flicker of will) but, for now, for today, he does as told, stays lying there with knees spread, hands on the pillow next to his head. His head is turned to the side and a spot of dark colour burns in his cheeks. He looks like something from a goddamn painting. It’s all that Jackson can do to slick his cock, breath catching at the brush of his own fingers.

The act itself is somewhat headlong; once he’s pressed inside Hobbs’, he finds it difficult to keep restrained. It’s all tightness, all heat. Hobbs squirms, one hand on Jackson’s shoulder, the other on the back of his neck. Jackson gropes for one of Hobbs’ long legs, drags it higher against his thigh to change the angle. Hobbs’ head falls back against the pillow with a groan, and he rocks. It never ceases to amaze Jackson, how bodies can work in tandem, each feeding into the other’s need. Hobbs’ nails scrape against his skin; they’ll leave a mark but Jackson can’t bring himself to give a good goddamn. Growling, he nips at Hobbs’ skin. Which will also leave a mark, and thank God for uniforms that button to the chin.

Hobbs comes first; they’re kissing when he does and he groans straight into Jackson’s mouth, bites at his lip. Jackson tastes blood. After that, it’s all that he can do to keep a hold of himself at all. He all but presses Hobbs down and fucks him into the mattress until his head is spinning and Hobbs is moaning with every single thrust, louder and louder. When Jackson kisses him, he leaves blood smeared on pale skin.

“You want it?” he asks, breathless, still thrusting, fingers digging into Hobbs’ thigh to keep it up. “You want this?” Hobbs nods, feverish; the rock of his hips hasn’t stopped, even with the slick mess between them. Jackson grins. “Go on then. Say it.”

For a moment, Hobbs stutters over it. Jackson watches his lips form words that are quickly discarded, manages to hold on despite the wait.

“Please, Captain Jackson. I…” He swallows back a moan. “I wish you would.”  
Which is all the urging that Jackson can stand, come to it. He comes, hard, his forehead resting against Hobbs’ lips.

They lie like that, for a moment, until they can bring themselves to untangle. Jackson slips to the side, sprawling alongside Hobbs’ and, when Hobbs’ turns his head, Jackson leans in to kiss him. When he pulls back, Hobbs is giving him the doziest smile.

“I suppose,” says Jackson, sprawling on his back as Hobbs sits up to find his underwear, “that I could stand to hear what it is that Reid wants, now.”

The line of the boy’s spine is like poetry.  
He glances back and smiles.


End file.
